The season turned, the air got sharp I pulled over at a frozen lake Then from the north, a shadow came A flock of birds wrote a moving name They flew in formation, a perfect V Heading somewhere warmer, somewhere free I thought about my own migration Birds know home is where the warmth is found I thought about my father\'s hands He worked the soil until he died My mother stayed in the same small town Her heart found home in making a home Winter birds, they know the way Some fly south, some stay in the cold Winter birds, they taught me this Home is not a place, it\'s a kind of bliss It\'s my father\'s hands and my mother\'s sun